


Crushing the Snake

by orphan_account



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Angst, Biker Gang mention, Gen, Grunkle Stan's Backstory, Hurt/Comfort, Jimmy Snakes is a dick, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Protective Grunkle Ford, Sad Grunkle Stan, Swearing, mild violence, rape mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 00:21:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8919268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: An old friend of Stanley’s comes for a visit. When the guest is told that he is unwanted but refuses to leave, Stanford takes matters into his own hands. Written for my friend Vie.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the warnings in the tags before you read. Thank you!

****_ Ding-dong. _

“Got it,” Stan Pines calls.

When he answers the door, his jaw drops so far he think it’s gone through the creaky wooden floor. “J-Jimmy,” he gasps.

“Stan Pines,” the now grey-bearded man says with a nod. “Can I come in?”

“S-sure,” Stan replies, the fear-induced stutter he thought he’d lost suddenly returning with a vengeance after more than thirty years. “C-can I get y-you anything?” he adds as the tall, leather-clad man steps inside.

“A drink would be welcome, babe.”

Stan shudders. “D-don’t call me that, Jimmy.”

“And why not?” The biker leans close to the conman. “If I say we’re an item, we’re an item. If I say we’re through, we’re through. I thought you knew this, ya little bitch.”

Stan flinches again. “I-I’m not a--”

“Who is it, Stan?” Stanford’s voice calls from upstairs. He’s just finished showering.

“J-just an old friend. W-wanted to come inside f-for a drink.”

A pause. “Stan? Since when did you have a stutter?”

Stan cringes. “W-what? I don’t ha-have a stutter.”

An exasperated sigh. “Stop lying to me, Stan. I can see right through them, you know.”

“Always thought your stutter was cute, Lee,” Jimmy Snakes breathes, his face way too close to Stan’s ear. It reminds Stan of those times in bed, reluctant but oh-so-willing if it would please his “biker babe.” He hates it.

“I-I’m fine. F-Ford, where’d you put the bottle of whiskey?” Stan calls to his twin, trying to stem the worry before it started.

“Why?” There is a faint  _ foomph _ from upstairs, like something catching on fire, then it’s gone. A quiet, “Ahh, that’s better,” follows it.

“Jimmy wanted some.”

“Second cupboard to the left above the sink. Don’t drink it all,” Ford warns.

“We w-won’t.” Stan retrieves the bottle and pours two shots, one for him and one for Jimmy.

“Stan,” the biker says, leaning against a counter and downing the shot. “I was wondering if you wanted to...accompany my gang and me again for a while?”

Stan’s eyes widen. “Huh?”

“Come with me,” Jimmy says quietly. “I want what we used to have.”

_ What we used to have. _ Distress? Hours of crying? Fear for his life? Reluctance and hate and hopelessness? Feeling used and worthless? Meaningless sex with no love in the equation, just lust and heat. Feeling nothing. Finally doing something worthy of being kicked from the gang. A strange sense of relief behind the sorrow. “No,” Stan says softly.

“Stan?”

“N-no.” This time, it’s not quiet.

The biker’s face immediately crumples with rage. “Listen, ya little whore,” he spits, flying at Stan. “If I say I want ya to come with me, ya come with me. If I say I want ya to plead with me to take me back, you fuckin’ beg. If I say I want ya to be my little bitch again, ya fuckin’ do it. Ya hear me?”

Stan is shoved up against a counter, wrists pinned, face inches away from his ex-boyfriend’s. His face loses expression, his mind is blank. He nods unfeelingly. Jimmy’s face relaxes slightly. “There,” he says. “That wasn’t so hard.” And he kisses Stan.

It’s rough. It’s hard. It hurts and stings and it’s  _ wrong. _ He hates it, he hates it just like he remembers hating it, and he tries to turn his face away but he can’t because Jimmy’s got him pinned and he’s strong, just as strong as he used to be. He makes a muffled sound of distress and pain but Jimmy disregards it, one hand releasing Stan’s to feel his jaw, his throat, his chest, his gut, his--

Stan manages to free his mouth from Jimmy’s prying tongue enough to shout, “No!”

“Stan?” Ford appears at the top of the stairs, face slightly smoking, to see a lanky, long-haired, leather-clad biker pinning his struggling brother to the kitchen counter. The biker’s hands roam Stan’s body, and his mouth is locked with Stan’s. “Stan, who’s this?”

Stan can’t get away, can’t speak, can’t move, can’t feel. Jimmy is strong.

“Hey, what are you doing to my brother?” Ford’s voice is a little angrier now, and he takes another couple steps down the stairs. “Stop! What are you doing?”

Jimmy stops kissing Stan, turns, and grins at Ford. “Hey, beautiful, ya look just like my little bitch. As for what I’m doing--I’m just takin’ what’s mine.”

“He doesn’t like it.”

“The hell he doesn’t.”

“You should stop.”

“The hell I should.” Jimmy’s hand is dangerously close to Stan’s groin. He presses another hard, biting kiss to Stan’s throat. “He always wants this. My little whore, still ready after thirty years.”

This sets Ford off. Clenching his six-fingered hands tightly, he grits from between his teeth, “Get off of my brother.”

“Why should I?”

“Because if you don’t, I will kill you.” It’s said with an icy calm.

This makes Jimmy let go of Stan’s wrist and actually turn around. “The hell you will.” But he’s raised an eyebrow.

“Get out of our house.”

Jimmy sneers.

Ford’s had it. He grabs his blaster from its holster and charges it, aiming it at Jimmy. “ _ Get out of our house. _ ”

The biker freezes. “You--what’s--?”

“Get out of our house now, or I will use it on you.”

Jimmy slinks towards the door.

“Good. Now, don’t come back. I won’t be as lenient the second time,” Ford says. His finger twitches threateningly.

Jimmy runs. The door slams behind him.

Stan is a panting, sobbing, panicking mess, half-kneeling on the kitchen floor. Ford runs to him, kneels, takes his arm, and helps him to lean against his sturdy chest. “It’s okay. It’s okay. He’s gone,” Ford murmurs. “He won’t ever come back here. He won’t ever hurt you again.”

Stanley sobs, and Stanford seethes inside. He wants to kill that man. But for now, his brother needs him. He can take care of Snakes later.

* * *

That afternoon, when Stan is settled down with a large tub of ice cream and a rerun of  _ The Duchess Approves, _ Ford goes out to find Jimmy Snakes. He doesn’t know how he’ll find that bastard but he will.

The first thing he does is ask around. “Have you seen a man dressed in leather, on a motorcycle, with a long grey beard and mustache and long grey hair?” he asks the people of Gravity Falls.

Everybody has. Jimmy Snakes is, apparently, hard to miss. According to the citizens, he’d stopped first at the convenience store, then at the bar. The last person he asks says he last saw the biker driving towards the motel on the edge of town. Ford curtly thanks everyone he asks, then leaps into the Stanleymobile and guns it.

Jimmy Snakes isn’t there when he arrives, but the receptionist says the man has just booked a room and will be back tonight. With a grim smile, the six-fingered ex-outlaw thanks her and resolves to wait until the biker comes back.

The sun is almost down by the time the motorcycle comes roaring into the parking lot. Stanford is ready for him. As soon as Snakes dismounts, Ford is on him, tackling him to the ground, pressing his gun to the man’s temple, and growling threateningly, carnally.

“Get off’a me, ya lunatic,” the biker swears. “Whaddya want?”

“I want you to pay for everything you did to Stan.”

“Hey, he wanted it. He's been my bitch for almost as long as the gang’s been around--with a thirty-year gap, of course.”

“Well, he's not your anything anymore. And if you ever touch him again, you’re dead. So get back on your bike and drive. Drive far away from here and forget about Stan, or I'll make sure you forget about him.”

Jimmy’s eyes widen as he sees the animalistic glint in Stanford’s eyes, and he realizes that the six-fingered man isn’t lying. “Fine,” he gasps, “just...get away from me! Get offa me!”

Stanford draws himself upright and stands over the man as he scrambles back and onto his bike, leaving the motel and the scientist and the town faster than Bill had left through the X-shaped tear in the world.

Ford’s job done, he slides calmly back into the El Diablo and drives back to the Shack to comfort his brother, who needs him now just as much as he had when he had no memory, when he was a shell.

With a sick glee, Ford simply decides to  _ imagine _ what it could have felt like to have his blaster burn a hole through that awful biker’s head. It might have felt amazing, too. But Stan...Stan wouldn’t have wanted that. So Ford doesn’t, either. Instead, as he pulls into the driveway, he puts on a gentle smile and prepares to sit way too close, to share tub after tub of too-sweet ice cream, to watch rerun after rerun of cheesy black-and-white television, and to give reassurance after reassurance to the brother who has experienced worse than Ford ever has in all his years of horror and betrayal.

"Hey, Ford." A wan smile on the world-weary lips.

"It's okay." A comforting arm around the shoulders, physical contact the only thing he can do. "It's okay."

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, I had to.


End file.
